


and down they forgot as up they grew

by gooseberry



Series: The Kingdom [6]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Childhood, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mother-Son Relationship, Prompt Fill, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-09
Updated: 2013-04-09
Packaged: 2017-12-08 00:58:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/755119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gooseberry/pseuds/gooseberry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A set of short fills for 'character and age' prompts on my Tumblr. In a vague chronological order, they are:</p>
<p>Thorin, Age 15<br/>Dwalin, Age 5<br/>Ori, Age 20<br/>Kili, Age 20</p>
<p>Pretty much a lot of family feels, especially mother-and-son and sibling feels. And a few cousin feels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Thorin, Age 15

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a line from E. E. Cummings's _anyone lived in a pretty how town_.

**Thorin, Age 15**

He has servants who dress him. They bring him clothes that were picked out by his mother--linen for the days that he is supposed to study with Balin, silk for the days that he is meant to follow his grandfather. Wool clothes are his favorite, because wool is what he wears when he’s allowed to spend the day with Frerin, wandering the halls of Erebor and practicing with their swords and bows. Wool is what he wears on the days he’s allowed to leave the mountain, to go hunting and to visit the city of Dale.

It is a wool day. His servants bring him heavy trousers and a shirt of soft, thick wool, dyed a deep shade of blue. The shirt is embroidered around the collar and cuffs with his crest, the stitch work done with a glinting silver thread, and the boots brought out are soft calfskin. He’s meant to stay inside Erebor, then--to spend the day with his mother, most likely.

“Your lady mother,” one of the servants says as he ties the lacings of Thorin’s shirt, “has asked for you to spend the morning in her rooms.”

He braids his hair as his servants bustle through his bedroom, making up his bed and laying out clothes for the afternoon--silk and brocade, which means he will be spending the latter half of his day with his grandfather. He twists cords of silver into his braids and puts in his heaviest hair clasps, and then he leaves for his mother’s rooms.

Bestla’s rooms are along the outer walls of the mountain, and she has eastern windows in her sitting room. When he’d been taken from her, and moved to his own set of rooms, he’d cried because he had wanted windows like hers; she had laughed and kissed him and said, _You’re too young. When you’re older yet, my prince._ He still does not have windows--he won’t have windows for as long as he’s the heir to their nation, and so it’s a pleasure to spend the mornings in her sitting room, where the sun shines through the windows, shattering on the gems and precious metals scattered throughout the room.

His mother is sitting near the windows, bent over a book, and she is wrapped in furs, a concession to the cold winter air that seeps through the windows. When Thorin says his hellos, Bestla looks up at him, then smiles and lays her book in her lap, holding out her hands toward him.

“Good morning,” she says when Thorin has crossed the room to grasp her hands. “It has been days--”

She tugs at him until he kneels beside her chair, and then she cups her hands around his face, turning his head this way and that. It is her same dreamy, gentle affection, the way she straightens his braids and the way she kisses him. 

“A week,” he says, “when we ate with Grandfather,” and she says,

“Turn, I want to see your shirt.” She fingers the thick embroider at his neck, then says, “This family does better work than the last. Good. Your brother should be here soon--I sent him to take a note to your father.” 

She sits him on a chair next to the table, wrapping furs around him, and she talks to him while they wait for Frerin. She asks him about court, about the envoys from the Iron Hills and the rumors of elves visiting; she tells him secrets of the mountain and the dwarves who live within it, and even more secrets about the Men who live in the city below the mountain. 

“When will you,” Thorin begins to ask, and Bestla smiles as she says,

“Dis is nearly a year. I shall come back to court then.”

When Frerin returns, they eat their breakfast near the windows, where the winter sunlight glints off the silver and gold of the table settings. Bestla eats little--”I ate before you came,” she says--but she pushes food onto Thorin and Frerin, all of their favorites: candied fruits, hot sausages, the spicy breakfast cakes from Dale. 

When they’ve eaten too much, Bestla helps them lay out furs on the floor. Frerin sprawls on his back and Thorin lies on his belly, and their mother sits in her chair by the window. She reads to them, a book of dwarvish poetry from the Second Age. Her Khuzdul is far prettier than her Common--it is smooth and measured, like the beating of a heart. Thorin can feel himself falling asleep, his belly full and his limbs heavy, his ears humming with the sound of his mother’s voice. The furs are warm and the sunlight is hot on his cheek, and so he stretches and yawns and tucks his face in against his arms.

His mother wakes him. She is crouching beside him, rubbing his shoulder and calling his name. Her hair, red-gold and copper-bright, is spilling over her shoulders, and Thorin can remember how he used to grab at it, how he used to pull her bright hair. It had been soft and smooth, like a plane of glass, and Thorin wishes he could touch it again. He misses his mother, and his childhood, and the years he used to live in rooms with windows.

“It’s past morning,” his mother whispers, and she pulls Thorin until he is sitting up. “There’s just enough time for you to go back to your rooms and change before you must meet your grandfather.”

Frerin is still sleeping, his shirt wrinkled and his hair tangled. Frerin will be able to stay--Frerin will stay, and he’ll be able to eat lunch with Bestla and play with Dis while Thorin follows Thror throughout the mountain. 

“You’ll be late,” Bestla says, and she hurries Thorin to the door of her sitting room. Thorin stumbles, still feeling sleepy and a little clumsy, and his mother tucks him close enough to kiss the top of his head before she sends him back to the court.


	2. Dwalin, Age 5

**Dwalin, Age 5**

He tried to stay close to the tent. He really, really did--Mama was always saying he had to stay close by, and Balin yelled at him, and even Da was really loud about it, so Dwalin said _fine_ , he’d stay next to their stupid _tent_ , and he tried. But Da was busy and Mama said she couldn’t play with Dwalin, and when Dwalin went to look for Balin, he couldn’t find him anywhere, and it wasn’t fair because no one ever played with him.

And there were lots of other kids, and Dwalin never got to play with them unless Balin went, too, and Balin never wanted to go, and it wasn’t _fair_.

“Dwalin?” 

It was Frerin. Dwalin didn’t _like_ Frerin, because Frerin was always telling Dwalin what to do, and Balin was always with Frerin and Thorin and it wasn’t fair. Dwalin scrunched up his face and when Frerin grabbed at his arm, Dwalin pulled away.

“What are you doing here?” Frerin asked, always so _mean_ , and Dwalin huffed.

“Mama said I don’t have to tell you.”

“What? No, she didn’t. Dwalin, are you lost?”

“I’m not _lost_!” Dwalin shouted, and when Frerin tried to grab his arm again, Dwalin pushed him as hard as he could. Frerin didn’t even move, the big _idiot_ , and Dwalin wanted to kick him, but then Da would get mad again, and it wasn’t _fair_ , because no one would even play with him, no one ever played with him, he _hated_ this stupid place. 

“Alright,” Frerin said, and he was crouching down on the ground. “Then why are you wandering around?”

“I don’t have to tell you,” Dwalin snapped. Frerin was so noisy, and so mean, and so bossy. “Leave me alone, I’m busy.”

But when Dwalin kept walking, looking for Balin, stupid, bossy Frerin kept following him, and Frerin wouldn’t stop _talking_.

“Are you looking for Balin?” Frerin asked. And then he said, “Maybe we should look for your mother. She’s probably worried.”

“I can do what I want,” Dwalin grumbled, but stupid Frerin just kept following him, and he kept grabbing Dwalin’s shoulders and pushing Dwalin this way and that way. “ _Stop_ it,” Dwalin shouted, but Frerin grabbed Dwalin’s hand and started dragging him through the camp.

“I think I saw Balin,” Frerin said, and Dwalin stopped trying to pull his hand away. He went up on his tippy toes, and looked the way that Frerin pointed, and oh--there was Balin, talking to someone. 

Dwalin couldn’ve done it himself. He didn’t need stupid, ugly Frerin’s help, and he said so, he said, “I didn’t _need_ your help.”

Then he kicked Frerin as hard as he could, and when Frerin shouted, Dwalin turned and ran to hide behind Balin, because it was all Balin’s fault, anyways.


	3. Ori, Age 20

**Ori, Age 20**

When Ori woke up, Nori was sitting in the chair beside the bed. It wasn’t what Ori had expected--Dori had been there when Ori had fallen asleep, and Ori didn’t like the thought of Dori leaving while Ori was asleep.

“Dori?” he asked. His mouth was dry and his tongue felt thick, and trying to talk felt very exhausting.

“Oh,” Nori said, and he leaned forward, far too close. When Ori tried sink further back into the pillows, Nori frowned and said, softly, “You’re awake again. How’s your arm?”

“Broken,” Ori said, feeling cross. “It hurts.” Nori’s bit of a smile just made Ori feel crosser, and he didn’t want Nori here--he wanted Dori. “Dori?” he asked again.

“He’s gone out to yell at everyone again.” Nori’s smile grew as he said, “If he gets his way, your teacher will find himself thrown out of the mountain. Probably from the highest point.”

Maybe he should’ve cared, but he was tired and his arm was aching, all the way through his body. He felt like he might throw up, or maybe faint, and when Nori moved too quickly, Ori had to close his eyes and moan.

“That bad?” Nori asked softly, and Ori kept his mouth firmly shut so he wouldn’t throw up. Nori must have understood, because he made a soft, sympathetic kind of sound, like the sounds Dori had been making over Ori for days now. He held Ori’s hand and propped Ori up enough to give him tea and broth, and he even kissed Ori’s forehead.

“It’s not so bad,” Nori said when he was tucking Ori back into the blankets. “It’ll heal straight enough, and you’ll be fine in no time. Just need to get lots of sleep.”

Ori fell asleep like he always seemed to fall asleep now--slowly, and painfully, while his whole body seemed to throb in time with his heartbeat. When he woke up, it was because his arm felt like it was on fire, like someone had sewn coals inside his arm, instead of bone.

“Shh,” someone said, and Ori tried to stop crying, but he couldn’t. His arm hurt so badly--it was killing him, he’d rather just cut it off--

“No, you wouldn’t,” the voice said, and Ori hoped it was Dori--he wanted it to be Dori, because Dori made everything better.

“I wish I could, love.” And it had to be Dori, because Nori never called Ori _love_. Nori only called Ori _brat_ and _carrot_ and _troll_. 

“You’re back?” Ori asked, and he felt Dori brush his hair back.

“I was only gone a little while. I’ve brought something for the pain. You think you can eat a bit for me?”

Ori drank the cups Dori gave him--first a cold, bitter drink, then a tea that was sweetened with honey. Dori held Ori’s good hand, singing quietly, until Ori’s whole body felt numb. When it didn’t hurt so much, Ori let Dori coax him into eating--more broth, and soft bread, and even a little bit of cake with icing. 

“Where’d the cake come from?” Ori asked when he had eaten the last crumbs of the cake. Ori’s splintered arm had been propped up on pillows, and Ori looked at it curiously, at the bruised and swollen skin peeking out from beneath the tightly wrapped bandages. One of the bandages was already fraying at the end, and when Ori reached to touch the frayed threads, Dori clucked his tongue and said,

“Leave it alone, Ori. You don’t want to jar it.” Dori grabbed Ori’s hand, like he didn’t trust Ori to listen to him. “Nori got the cake from a friend of his,” Dori said, with a grimace that said exactly what he thought of Nori’s friend. “If you leave your arm alone, you can have another piece later.”

Dori told Ori stories until Ori was yawning, and even Nori came in to listen. Dori’s stories were the best--he did voices, and he would make faces, and sometimes he would even make puppets out of a corner of a blanket. When Ori couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer, Dori helped Ori turn onto Ori’s side, enough that Ori was finally comfortable, and then Dori sat beside Ori and pet Ori’s hair.

“He’s got a bit of a fever,” Dori said softly, like he thought Ori was asleep. He was pressing the back of his hand against Ori’s head, and his hand felt nice and cool.

“Infection?” Nori asked. “You should kill that teacher of his--stupid bastard, using a stick that heavy.”

“I’m trying.” Dori’s voice sounded angry, but his hand was still resting soft and cool on Ori’s face, and Ori groaned. Dori’s voice went quiet, and Nori’s, too, and when Ori opened his eyes enough to peek up, he saw Dori looking down at him.

“Go to sleep, Ori,” Dori said, and he covered Ori’s eyes with his hand, and he kissed Ori’s forehead. “We’ll see you in the morning.”


	4. Kili, Age 20

**Kili, Age 20**

Kili’s twenties are far easier than the years when he was a child. While his temper seems to be as bad as ever, he cries less, and rarely bites or scratches. Now he only screams the cruelest things he can think and sulks in the bedroom he shares with Fili.

Dis is grateful for it--of course she is grateful for it, because a sulk is worlds better than a fit. Still, when he shrieks, “I hate you, I wish you were _dead_ ,” she can’t help feeling as hurt as she felt when he used to bite her.

She swallows down her anger and hurt, and says, “I know you don’t mean that.”

“I _do_ ,” he snarls up at her, and he is still so very small. She wishes she could hold him again, that she could rock him in her chair, and build forts of blankets to hide in. 

“You don’t,” she says, and he storms to his room, slamming the door hard enough that the crockery shakes on the kitchen shelves.

Kili’s twenties are easier, though--far easier than his childhood.

Thorin walks into Dis’s house, and he doesn’t walk back out. He lets his things scatter around the house, and he begins to work in a forge near the center of the mountain. He wanders the house in his stocking feet, morning and night, and he argues with Dis on how to reorganize the storage room. Finally, when Thorin has been underfoot for long enough that Dis is wishing he’d leave again, Dis says, 

“If you’re staying, then you might as well take over the boys’ lessons.”

Thorin agrees quickly and Dis pointedly rolls her eyes at him. Thorin scowls at her then, but when she explains the boys’ lessons, she catches him smiling at the table.

Such a foolish dwarf.

Thorin takes over the majority of the boys’ lessons--Khuzdul, politics, history, literature and theories. When he is not at the forge, he is sitting at the table with Fili and Kili, correcting Fili’s grammar and quizzing Kili on dates. When Thorin is not with the boys, then Dis is, working with the boys on logic and geometry and geography and weapon work. The boys are as eager to please Thorin as they were at five and ten, and now that they’re spending far less time with Dis, they’re more eager to please her, too. Within a few weeks, the house settles into a comfortable rhythm.

Kili’s temper doesn’t get better, and his sulks don’t grow any less severe; still, when he is happy he seems happier than ever, and he seems to smile more than before.

“You might as well take over their weapons training,” Dis tells Thorin one night, when she is checking the design of a new set of armor. She can hear him shift on his chair, but she doesn’t look up form the designs.

“You’re a better teacher,” he says after a moment, and Dis snorts and flips a page of the designs.

“You’d frighten them--that’d be good for them. They’re never afraid of me, they know I’ll always pull back before I hurt them.” She turns the page back, then adds, “It would be good for both of them.”

“Kili seems better,” Thorin says a low voice. “He seems less angry.”

Dis thinks of how Kili had hugged her after dinner, and how he hadn’t even squirmed when she had played with his hair; she thinks of how he had screamed at her a week ago, and how he’d thrown a plate at Fili. She thinks of how he laughs harder than anyone she has ever known, and how he will sulk in his room for hours for every imagined slight.

“Yes,” she says slowly, “he is better.” Then she shrugs and says, “Either way, you’ll want to watch Fili. His footwork goes a little lazy if he thinks you aren’t watching him.”


End file.
